


MASINT

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Disguise, Episode: s03e21 The Die Is Cast, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Slight AU of episode, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: MASINT: Measurement And Signature INTelligence, gathered covertly.When Odo is taken prisoner by Garak and Tain, Bashir all-too happily creates an undercover mission and casts himself in the starring role.  Will it be enough to get past Garak's defenses, and to bring Odo safely home?(A slight twist on The Die is Cast, where the Defiant never makes it off of the docking ring, and more drastic rescue measures are required ;) )





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

Bashir half-expected Garak to stand him up for their first lunch appointment, but three months later, they were still meeting consistently.  A few weeks in, after Bashir ran out of comfortable small talk topics, Garak dove eagerly into discussing one of his favorite books, and then literature became a cornerstone of their conversations.

Garak was still very much a mystery to the good doctor, who began searching for answers in the Cardassian books, to compensate for what Garak would not tell him.  The station library had easy access to Cardassian volumes, and Bashir prided himself on sniffing out a cautionary tale about a State Witness.

“It’s an enigma tale,” Garak corrected him, and then looped his napkin around his neck and tied it like a kerchief.

Bashir turned his fork sideways and used it to slice into his entree, trying to look unaffected.

“That’s right,” Bashir agreed. “But what I don’t understand is—”

“You must assume guilt from the beginning, Doctor. That is the hallmark of the genre, you see.”

“Right, rather than assuming innocence.  I see that. But I don’t understand why the operative bothers testifying against his partner in favor of the State, if he knows the State will declare him guilty at the end, anyway.”

“Because the operative does not know he is a literary device, Doctor.”

“But he would know, if he were a real figure, that every trial on Cardassia has the same outcome, no matter what the charges are.  It’s execution, over and over again.”

Garak made a soft, warm sound. Almost like a sigh, but as a signal of peace and relaxation.  Bashir was always looking for signals like this when they were together; he worried he was... worried, while Garak was perfectly composed and content to play him like a hand of cards.  He was working on improving his image, so why not ask the resident spy, himself?

“If I may,” Garak began, “what brought on this sudden interest in our judicial system?”

“Well... what if I need to help a friend?” Bashir said, raking his fingers through his hair.  Nonsense.

“A Cardassian friend?” Garak asked, subtly inclining his browridge. “One of less-than-savory standing?"

“It could happen, couldn’t it?” Bashir was eager to look confident again, and spoke without hesitating. “You could be tried for your crimes, whatever they were, and I’d... I’d like to testify on your side.”

"I'm afraid this whole scenario is _highly_ unlikely, Doctor.  It's as if you haven't read the story at all."

Bashir mashed his vegetables with his fork, mixed them together, and then did not eat them.

"I've read enough to learn the moral.  That's the point of an enigma tale, isn't it?"

This drew a smile out of Garak, as he leaned over his plate and stirred idly at the little heap of rice.  

"The _point_ ," he said, like this was a quaint little human concept, "is not to be put on trial by one's State in the first place.  Besides, I have already had my trial. My sentence has allowed for you and I to become acquainted."

"Mm, that must be torturous," Bashir teased.  "And I imagine there's no Court of Appeals...?"

"Exactly."

"Well, if I ever do get the chance to help you, you can be certain I'll take it."

"I'd like to see you get into a Cardassian courthouse without raising suspicion."

Bashir laughed, tucked the notion away, and returned to his meal.


	2. Episode

It's been too long, Garak thinks, since he and his opponents have been on exactly equal ground.

They're on the bridge, the four of them, himself included.  Then Tain, a weak and disfigured Odo, and another Changeling in a far better physical state.  That physical state, now, is a magnificent impression of a Romulan, down to the uniform and functioning communicator and weaponry.  Garak has just watched Odo to transform - _coerced_ him - so he knows what to expect from his healthiest opponent.  Odo is unable to form words, let alone a functioning mouth, and Tain is phasing in and out of consciousness.  It may as well be Garak and the changeling, all alone.

But it isn't.

And as long as he's in mixed company, without broadcasting who is in control of the vessel, he is relatively safe.  The Jem'hadar are well trained not to fire, as long as Odo and the changeling are on board, under no serious threat.  

Garak thinks back to the interrogation chamber, and it makes him laugh.  His eyes glow against the flashes on the viewscreen, as the surrounding fleet is targeted, and he laughs as he recalls the most recent and horrible thing Tain ordered him to do.  The quantum stasis device had not been kind to Odo, and Tain's praise about Garak's interrogation of Dr. Parmak rattled around in his head. He had not touched Parmak - he had not needed to - but he _had_ touched Odo.  He had reached out to reassure him, catching only a fistful of warm, shifting liquid.

Now, Odo is about half his customary solid size, and Garak holds onto him tightly, feeling him ooze into the gaps in his suit, either clinging on for life, or leeching it.  Garak isn't sure, but it doesn't matter. He remembers what Odo said, under excruciating pressure, when truth was his only chance of relief.

Garak looks to the changeling, who traces his communicator with two fingers; Garak must speak first, and if the Jem'hadar hear him over the communicator, so be it.

"Mr. Lovok," Garak says, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to sound cordial, "my associate would like to go home."

As he speaks, he hoists what he can of Odo's form in indication, waiting to catch Lovok's gaze.  He hopes to see pity, the same kind he saw in himself and kept secret from Tain.

"Perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement?" Garak goes on, inching closer to Tain while keeping Odo like a shield between them.  

"My mission is to remove the Obsidian Order as a threat to the Dominion," Lovok says.

"And you've done a _wonderful_ job," Garak replies, nodding to Tain, passed out on the floor.

Lovok mimics a sigh.

"What does that mean for you?" he asks, looking at Garak over the heads of their hostages.

"Me?" now, when Garak's eyes glint, it isn't against the twisted backdrop of ships exploding; it is with hope, "I'd like to go home, too."

He finds himself worrying about his own well-being, foremost, then Tain and Odo's in almost equal amounts.  What might happen, if he gives Lovok a piece of the gradually-dissolving Odo he is holding? Or, if he takes the entire ship to Cardassia?  He can't reach the console from where he is on the floor, thrown there after the Jem'hadar fired their first warning shot.

"Will they be able to heal him," Garak asks, "in the Great Link?"

There's no reason for Garak to even know the name of the sacred bond, and Lovok knows it.  Garak is gambling on the fact that Lovok, too, will take pity. This is the most evenly-matched Garak has felt in months, with the exclusion of one particularly good debate of ethics with the good doctor, over an audience of cold lunch.

"He wants to go there," Garak adds, as Lovok remains quiet.

In front of them, the Jem'hadar ships are arranged in an attack formation, waiting for Lovok to give some kind of signal.  Garak knows this game too well.

"I believe they're waiting on you," Garak says.  "Will you take him?"

He holds Odo forward again - a gesture of goodwill - in the same way Lovok might hold an uncharged disruptor.  That is as equal as they can be, now, as the game spirals toward its conclusion. Only one of them can win, and despite Lovok's pistol, Garak is convinced it will be himself.

"Give your signal, take him if you want to," Garak says.  It does not matter, not at all.

Lovok touches his communicator and vanishes into a transporter beam, alone.  There is a moment of relative silence - aside from ragged breathing and the soft, squishy sounds of Odo's remission into his fully liquid form - and then there is a sound only in Garak's imagination.  The charging of the Jem'hadar weapons cannot be heard through the vacuum of space, but Garak watches them on the viewscreen, glowing white and purple and circulating around the bough of each ship. Garak can hear it as if he is wrapped up inside the lead ship's phaser coils.

He fumbles for the console, and he forces the battered ship into warp.  They drop straight down, as much as possible in the surrounding vacuum. But according to Garak's racing heart and a whimpered protest from Tain, they are falling.  When Garak is sure they are out of the Jem'hadar fleet's sight, he adjusts their heading, and urges the tired ship on toward Cardassian space.

***

Captain Sisko does not spend the afternoon in high spirits.  He splits his attention between the paralyzed _Defiant_ and on the outside of Eddington's holding cell.  O'Brien is working nonstop to repair the cloaking device, and Sisko's priority is finding Odo and returning him safely to the station.  Of course, this would have been a lot easier without Eddington's sanctioned meddling, but Sisko does not give up easily. And, once Odo returns to duty, Sisko anticipates assigning responsibility for Eddington's sentence to the Bajoran government.  He hasn't worked out the details, yet, but he does not take broken promises lightly.

He checks in briefly with each of his senior officers, cobbling together the best strategy to find Odo.  O'Brien sighs and shrugs at the control panel he is working on, Kira offers to put in a request for reinforcements from Bajor - which Sisko refuses to endorse, Dax makes a wishful mention of adjusting the long-range scanners with data inputted from Odo's last trip to the Infirmary.  

"Or," she says, after Sisko agrees with her suggestion to see Doctor Bashir, "you can see if Julian's been in touch with Garak, since this whole thing started."

He purses his lips, and she copies the gesture right back to him, teasingly.

"Mister Garak is _not_ my first priority," Sisko says.

Dax leans back in her seat.  

"No, but if we can't get to Odo, maybe Garak can.  Maybe they're still on the same ship."

Without asking permission, she taps her comm-badge.

"Dax to Bashir," she says.  "We want to take one of Odo's bio-scans to track the ship he was on with Garak.  Can you help us with that?"

Bashir answers after a short delay and a long, nervous inhale.

"I've, um..." he says, "I've started testing a theory, since the Captain um..."

"Please, Doctor," Sisko interjects, leaning closer to Dax's badge.  "Go on."

"If you don't want me to go through with it, Sir, I completely understand.  But I... rather thought I could... work out whether or not Garak intends to help us, and then find Odo after that."

"He and Odo are together on a Cardassian ship, according to our last scan," Dax says.

"I don't think Garak is intending to help _us_ , Doctor."

"Well, I... what if I could figure that out without showing our hand?  Find Odo and extract him whether Garak wants me to or not..."

"I'm listening," Sisko says.

"With all due respect, Sir, you might prefer to _see_."

***

Bashir has taken over half of the topical injections by the time Sisko arrives; he has timed it exactly right.  Of course, the procedure can always be undone, or more practically it can be _wasted_ , but Bashir thinks he stands a better chance with his preparation almost complete.  When Sisko meets him in the Infirmary, his skin is paling, a patchwork of ash-gray and white, and his brow-bones are flaring up from his forehead.  Bashir coughs and offers an apology.

"Captain, I barely had time as it was.  I'd just thought..." Bashir tries to say.

Sisko is not one to enter an argument merely for the sake of arguing.  He takes a half step back and puts his arms behind his back, whether in restraint or defeat Bashir cannot currently tell - his eyes are still adjusting to the dilation drops and the false-color lenses.  Bashir does not go into anything unprepared. He is ready to see clearly and comfortably in darkness, and to have the more traditional blue eyes instead of brown. He is nearly cosmetically a Cardassian.

He does not stop there.  As Sisko watches him, looking down on him like a distant father to a step-child, he installs a thin, transparent band around his wrist, sticking it in place with medical adhesive, explaining how it will transmit falsified vital signs.  In the same distant way, Sisko nods at him.

"You should have told me," Sisko says.

"...yes, Sir."

The rest of the agreement is unspoken.  Sisko asks, instead, how much longer Bashir's transformation will take.  

"I'd planned to finish on the runabout, Captain," Bashir assures him.  "Twenty minutes, at the most."

"Your primary objective is to return with Constable Odo.  Not to win back Garak's affections."

Bashir nods and gives his commanding officer a smile, with his thickly-set Cardassian incisors tipping the expression toward unsettling.  It is the same face Garak makes, quite frequently.

"Oh, I'll be back as quickly as I can, Sir," Bashir replies, in his charming and youthful way.  "The majority of the changes are topical; the injections will start to dissolve in about eight hours, at their best."

"I'd like you home sooner than that."

Bashir does not say anything, but instead turns to the replicator to ask for clothing of a Cardassian design.  He regrets two things about Garak's tailor shop: first, that Garak would easily recognize his own creations, and second, that the shop is still in shambles from the explosion.  Replicated will have to suffice.

***

As he sits on the runabout, he prepares a cleaning solution for a set of contact lenses before popping them into his eyes.  The lenses are pale blue and permanently dilated, forcing his eyes underneath to adjust to dimmer lighting and drier conditions.  As he finishes with these, he sets to administering a specialized reconstructive tissue injection against each of his hands, coating them with ridges.  He can almost _hear_ Dax smirking at him, as she interrupts to ask him 'just how thorough' he plans on being.

"Just a touch above the wrists," Bashir says.  "I'll remember not to roll up my sleeves."

He has already changed into a replicated Cardassian-style outfit, and he makes sure the fit is tight enough to maintain his cover.

"Hmm," Dax manages to pack the sound with innuendo, so Bashir frowns at her.

"I'm not going to be on board any longer than necessary," he insists.

"Well," she turns her attention back to the viewscreen, "once we know Odo is safe, you can take your time."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," Dax emphasizes, "you're going through a lot of trouble for a pretty standard rescue mission.  Why do you need the disguise at all?"

Bashir blinks a bit too hard, and mutters to himself as he reaches to adjust his contact lens.  

"In case Odo isn't alone on the ship."

"We _know_ he isn't alone, Julian.  _I_ think you're trying to have some fun with it."

Bashir shrugs, then stands and paces so he can catch his reflection in a variety of differently sized and tinted screens, ensuring his cosmetic procedure is progressing as designed.  Without repeating doses of several ingredients, his full disguise is only made to last eight hours or so, depending on how little or much he must physically exert himself. As it is now, he tries moving his eyes and eyelids carefully, so he does not upset his contacts, and he must keep from lifting his arms past a certain height, so he does not lift his shirt cuffs enough to reveal his unaltered arms.  But Bashir has practiced enough balancing acts in his lifetime, and keeps all of his new limitations carefully in mind. In a way, he finds it liberating, not to be expected to do everything, all the time, perfectly. He does not confide this in Dax, though, because he knows better. And because they are nearing the edge of Federation space.

"Scanning for changeling lifesigns," Dax narrates her actions, as she makes an adjustment on her console.  "I'm surprised you and Garak don't have some secret channel..."

"I'm not," Bashir grumbles back.  "I think he only talks to me to amuse himself."

"Everybody's different.  Some people meet for lunch, some plan elaborate undercover rescue missions..."

Bashir grunts and returns to his station, giving their course at least some of his focus.  Once the lifesigns are found, they will work to deduce which belongs to Odo, and they will proceed to his location.  And, at some point Bashir _hopes_ Dax will stop making comments about Garak.

***

"Enabran?" Garak asks quietly.

The ship is stable, for now, although their initial fall resulted in several uncomfortable spins before Garak established a course heading.  The fact it was done intentionally made it more bearable for Garak, himself, but to his incapacitated passengers, the discomfort has yet to be explained.  As usual, he will decide who to ally himself with in the order they wake up. It's not a comfortable triangle he's found himself in, between his former mentor - who tried to have Garak killed less than a day ago - and the constable - who Garak has personally tortured even more recently.

So, Odo becomes his first priority.  Garak would call it sentiment, but he helpfully reminds himself, in the inner-voice he inherited from arduous training sessions with Tain, that not everyone shares his tolerance for pain infliction.  Odo was quite literally falling apart an hour ago, begging to go home, and Garak allows himself - now that he is the only one awake - to sympathize.

He peels back the panel which covers the inner electronics of Odo's stasis tube.  The design itself is not complicated, and Garak thinks he can try his hand at reversing the device's output.  It is switched off, at the moment, and Garak thinks he can re-wire it so that it will not keep Odo _out_ of his natural state, but keep him _in_ it, where he will be safest for the time being.

While he is working, Tain stirs on the ground beside him.  The old man grumbles and shuffles back on his arms, unsteady and creaky and obviously unhappy with the circumstances.  He has never been slow to remind Garak of facts like these.

"I should've known better," Tain grumbles to himself.  It could be about the changeling infiltrator, or about Garak, or about both; he gives his abuse freely and vaguely.

Garak glances over his shoulder, only for a second.

"I managed to get us out of Dominion space," Garak offers.  It isn't good enough, and Tain expects him to explain _why_.

"Hmm."

"But I'm afraid the Jem'hadar ships did a number on our navigational system," Garak goes on.  "I'm fairly certain we're clear of the neutral zone, but only because I thought I could see Cardassia Prime on the viewscreen, before it went black."

"Falling through space will do that to unwitting systems," Tain muses, bitterly.  Garak is sure Tain is alluding to himself.

"Is there anyone you can send for?" Garak asks.

He remains focused on his work, having learned over the years that his work is best when he is - one, not obsessively watching Tain watch him - and  - two, trying to please the old man anyway. The delicate wires bend easily to his expert touch, and he realigns them backward before attempting to turn the device on.

It buzzes softly, sounding like it's been strangled, and Garak coaxes it with the change of another wire.

"No.  You saw that list," Tain says, after a while.

"Yes, of deceased Obsidian Order operatives," Garak says back, barely resisting the urge to tut his tongue.  " _My_ name was there without due cause, as you can see.  Surely there are others. What about Lok? Enabran, look at me.  Pythas Lok?"

Garak refers to the current head of the Order, Tain's hand-selected successor.  

"No.  Gone," Tain gurgles, without specifying further.  

"I hope you're wrong."

"I never am."

Garak keeps his mouth shut, and focuses on dragging Odo's limp form within reach of the stasis field's weakened beams.  They triangulate outward just far enough to catch him, and Garak tries to lay him down gently between the lines of light, watching with some satisfaction as Odo is finally able to melt back into his natural state.  There is no disagreement, no vocalized sound from him at all, only the sounds of burbling and sloshing as he shrinks down from his size as a humanoid, then gradually expands outward to test the limits of his new enclosure.  Garak observes his reaction to the shock, and knows how happy Odo used to make entire teams of scientists, Bajoran and Cardassian alike. He's skimmed the files a dozen times, reading them for leisure; he likes to be familiar with the individuals he is forced to live with.  It is generally sufficient to move him out, and quickly.

He is far too familiar with Tain, though, to ever live inside his mansion again.  He knows that, and it hurts. It hurts like the shock Odo receives when he checks each side of the perimeter.  In all his reading, he has rarely known Odo to give up.

"I hope you are, Enabran," Garak says, recoiling from his own words like he's been slapped on the cheek.  "I hope you're wrong. I can't do anything else for you from inside this ship."

This isn't even a lie.  Garak cannot fix all of the damage to the navigational system from inside the ship; he needs to see their surroundings in order to orient himself, or the readings will be useless.  All he can do is prioritize caring for his co-passengers, and wait for Tain to prove himself wrong.

"You'll think of something," Tain replies.  "I'm taking an injection for the pain, thanks to you."

With that, the old man leans his full weight against the console he is resting at, and retires to sleep.

***

"Why aren't they scanning us," Bashir asks flatly, peering into his monitor and receiving no answers about intuition.  He receives only the same fact, again and again: there is a ship beside them bearing one changeling life-sign and two Cardassian life-signs, and no one on board is hailing them.

Dax only shrugs.

"From what I can read, their systems are barely functioning.  Maybe they're unconscious."

"It's got to be Tain and Garak," Bashir insists.  

This is not the point Dax is debating, and she reminds Bashir of this with an eye-roll and a tap on his wrist.

"I'm sure it is, and I'm _sure_ they're unconscious."

Their sifting through Dominion ships and Jem'hadar life-signs from afar has culminated in this: finding their prize tucked safely inside Cardassian space, and Bashir being too nervous to take the next step on his assignment.  Luckily for him, Dax has lifetimes of experience to call on, and usually manages to write off her nerves before she even orders breakfast.

"There's no cloaking device..." Bashir mumbles, having put the runabout into harm's way enough already.  "You can't be _in_ range of their sensors when they come to.  And you can't go _out_ of range, in case I need backup."

Dax takes all of this in stride, and splays her fingers over a series of buttons and switches, leaving Bashir to wonder which one she will push.

"Do you know how many times I've watched Chief O'Brien falsify emission signatures?" she teases.  "I can make us look like we've come from planets he's never even _heard_ of."

"But once they have you on the viewscreen--" Bashir whines.

"They're in pretty sorry shape; I don't think that'll be a problem for a few hours, at least.  Now, I think you have a changeling to rescue."

Bashir likes for his deeds to sound heroic - _damn_ , he thinks, _Dax knows that_ \- and it guides his steps toward the transporter pad.  

"Alright," he says, bringing his hands together with a single, quiet _clap_.  "They must need a doctor."

It's a terrible attempt at lightening the mood - although better when used in an appropriate context and not as a pick-up line - but Dax gives it a friendly chuckle as she engages the transporter, and sends Bashir off to his destination.

***

Garak misses almost the entire transport.  The sound is soft, much quieter than the residual hum from inside the navigation console, where he has buried his head in from beneath.  At the present moment, he lacks the peripheral vision to see the color of the beam, to try and place what type of pad the signature has originated from.  Tain is right, he is losing his knack for undercover work.

Carefully, he withdraws his head from inside the belly of the console, shoving aside slackened cables and turning over his shoulder to acknowledge the sound of a footstep.  There is a Cardassian on their ship, standing attentively with his arms at his sides, newly materialized. And Garak doesn't recognize him, and Tain hasn't stirred from his medicated sleep.

Garak stands and extends his arm in greeting, touching the man's forearm with his palm.  If he is a friend, the gesture is respectful, and if he is not, Garak can quickly mutate the hold into grappling, in which he has already established an advantage.

The man looks up at him, and there is something gentle in his eyes.  Garak loosens his grip accordingly, then clears his throat.

"Your name and affiliation," Garak says, shifting so he is standing between the man and his potential view of Tain.

The man answers in the wrong order, which Garak cannot help but take as a good sign:

"Obsidian Order," the man says.  "Doctor Rissa."

Garak glances at him, up and down - stops at his eyes, soft and yielding, _curious_ \- then up and down again.  It's almost as if he wants to find the visitor _familiar_ , but Garak stifles that thought as soon as he recognizes it for what it is: sentiment.

"Rissa," Garak repeats - the hiss is sweet to his tongue.  "Yes, very good."

With the familiarity set aside, Garak takes in the man’s stature.  He is tall, broad-shoulders complemented by nimble fingers, slick hair, soft eyes…

"Are you wounded?" Rissa asks.  

Straight to business, this man.  It's shocking. Garak gives himself away - looks to his prized possessions - Odo on the floor in the stasis field and Tain sleeping away in the corner.  When will he learn to think only of himself, like so many others already assume, like the self-image he has cultivated?

Garak offers his other arm, spreading his fingers for Rissa to look at.

"It's quite sore," Garak spins the words as he goes.  "Sprained, perhaps? I wouldn't know. When we were fired on, I took cover here--" he gestures to the console he was repairing, "--and my fingers were caught under the railing."

There's a glow in Rissa's eyes, now, the same kind Garak can _feel_ himself displaying when he is called upon to use his own skills.  It feels like home, as Rissa takes Garak's wrist between his hands, and presses the pads of his thumbs into the gaps between the articulated joints beneath Garak's ridges.  

Garak winces.

"Oh, I see," Rissa says.  "A minor radiale fracture, if anything.  Here, I can sort that out in no time."

Garak watches, as Rissa reaches into his reddish coat, finding an inner pocket and producing a medical tool from it.  Garak is not perfectly up-to-date on Cardassian medical technology, but the shape and color are quite ordinary, and it makes a whirring sound as Rissa runs it over Garak's wrist, fusing the thin bone back together.  He _is_ a doctor, Garak isn't about to debate that.

"Now," Rissa says, leaving Garak to stare at his own hand, as Rissa pulls his own abruptly out from underneath it, "You are with two others.  Their conditions, please?"

"Who sent for you?" Garak asks, still standing purposely in front of Tain's resting place.  There is no other logical answer, no way anyone could find them except a Jem'hadar warship. This was not a Cardassian civilian, but a trained professional with a set purpose.

"Enabran Tain," Rissa says, right away.

"Yes, he’s right there."

Garak has all he needs, and has never been happier to watch Tain catch himself in a lie.  It's a game the two of them play, at the genuine benefit of no one, until now, when Tain is in need of serious help.

"I see he doesn't have any faith in my field-training," Garak says.

"I've always thought of him as... paranoid," Rissa says.  

How very bold.  Because Garak doesn’t want to see this young man at the end of Tain’s short-tethered mercy, he argues:

"I can promise you he isn't the mood for comments like that."

"I wouldn't dare," Rissa replies, in a low voice.  "That was for _you."_

Garak turns and leads Rissa to Tain's side, where both of them stoop.  Garak clears his throat while Rissa clears another selection of small tools from his pocket.

"Did you give him a sedative?" Rissa asks.  All business, always.

Garak squirms.

"Yes.  A _benzogesic_ injection.  He fell when the enemy ship engaged us.  He was in a considerable amount of pain."

Rissa traces the legion on Tain's head, piercing the side of his lip and running alongside his orbital ridge, puckering the skin just beneath his hairline.  It is deep and purplish-red with dried blood, and Garak knows Tain would not have allowed him to touch it, under any circumstances.

"Fine, fine," Rissa says.  "And your other passenger? There was a third signature listed on my mission briefing.  Are they hurt, as well?"

Garak has a decision to make.  His changeling passenger is fully liquefied, now, huddling for safety in the center of the containment field.  To most Cardassians, the changeling race is an unproven legend. Not to Obsidian order operatives, though. If this was someone Tain employed, the language would be familiar enough.

"What type of signature?" Garak asks.  "Unknown? _Nothing?_ "

"Changeling, actually.  Are they hurt?"

 _How charmingly reckless_ , Garak thinks, while quite intentionally slapping himself on the wrist.  It's a trait of all doctors, he reminds himself. It has to be, or they wouldn't get anything out of their patients at all.  But, then again, he's only ever heard of humans giving gendered words to changelings. _It_ , Garak consciously thinks, is a jar of jelly, even if that jelly sometimes identifies itself as Constable Odo.  He has to proceed carefully, along this same line.

"I wouldn't have the first instinct," Garak says.  "It's been in stasis the entire trip. We were... hoping to broker a deal between their race and the Tal Shiar... but I, for one, am relieved it amounted to _nothing_ in the end."

Rissa half-crawls toward the stasis field, and immediately begins hovering over it with every scanner he's brought along.  Garak wonders if he knows the first thing about changeling anatomy, and _just like that_ , Rissa is onto him, speaking up before Garak can ask.

"I observed a sample of changeling mass during the Occupation," Rissa explains, reaching between the protective lines to prod Odo with one careful finger.  Odo does not recoil; Garak does not say anything about this directly.

"You hardly look old enough to have been practicing during the Occupation."

Rissa rolls his fingertip from side to side over Odo's gelatinous form, like he is petting a friendly animal's head.

"I was an Orderly.  They're fascinating, aren't they?" Rissa says, seemingly undeterred.

"So they are," Garak replies, through his teeth.

***

Bashir has what he came for, all within the reach of his hand.  This is Odo, not a hostile changeling, and this is Garak, not telling the truth as usual.  He can take both of them home, not just Odo. But he has to play the rest of his part carefully, to ensure Garak is safe and on his side.  The balance is struck over Tain's shoulders, shifting side to side as he moves in his sleep, keeping Garak and Bashir from confessing to each other.  Otherwise, Bashir would like to confess his identity, as much as he would like Garak to confess an interest in returning with him to deep space Nine. But Tain is there in the corner, sighing with resentment even as he sleeps, and it's enough to keep Bashir's imagination in check.  This is delicate work he is doing, now.

He hopes to think of a way to signal Garak, some way to reveal himself discreetly, enough for Garak to be enticed while Tain remains unaware, but that's a range of reactions to expect from two highly-trained undercover operatives.  Bashir wishes he had some of this training, himself.

He stops his overly tactile examination of Odo, planning out apologies in his head, and shifts to the use of a handheld scanner.  The life-sign matches readings he has taken of Odo in the past. All is well.

Tain groans, and Bashir turns over his shoulder to see Garak already rushing to Tain's side.  Bashir has no choice but to follow, fumbling through his pocket for another sedative. Nothing he has packed will complement the one Tain has already taken, but his inner ethical struggle is brief.  He would heal Garak in a heartbeat - he knows there's good in him, somewhere - but Tain is not formally his patient, nor has he made any attempt to be his friend. Bashir wonders why Garak goes to such lengths for him at all.

"Doctor," Garak says gently, as he holds Tain's chin up in his hand.

Tain's focus is poor, but he protests Bashir's approach immediately.

"You sent for me, Sir," Bashir says, feeling his resolve crumble, trying to build it back up again with the sedative like paper-paste on a wall of bricks.

"Garak," Tain growls.

"Doctor Rissa," Bashir supplies more for Tain to chew on, more for him to process while the new dosage takes effect, "Bril Rissa.  We met at that trial, last spring..."

He has bought himself enough time to align the hypospray against Tain's neck - with Garak's unspoken agreement to support Tain's chin - and he administers it without hesitation.  Then he sets down the empty cartridge and dusts his hands against the knee-patches on his trousers, and looks to Garak.

"Were you with him when he fell?" Bashir asks, ready to suggest potential memory loss.  This is working out too well.

"Were you with him, at a _trial_?" Garak replies, not kindly.

Bashir swallows, clears his throat, disguises the sound as he puts the empty cartridge away in his coat pocket.  

"It was incredible," Bashir says.  "A central command clerk refusing to submit daily reports to his superior.  He didn't stand a chance."

Bashir hopes he can get by without more detail, but fears this is a tactic Garak does not receive nearly as well as he gives.  But this quickly gives way to another fear entirely, as Garak stands and stiffens his arms at his sides.

"I haven't been to a trial in years," Garak says sadly.  "Especially not with him. And not... counting my own."

Without completely understanding why, Bashir feels his heart beginning to ache.  Is this in Garak's nature, to confide in strangers? He learns less and less, each day he considers Garak more and more of a friend.

"Your own?" Bashir asks.

"As much as excommunication sanctioned by the Order can be considered a trial."

"Well, with the same inevitable conclusion."

Garak offers a tight-lipped laugh, not entirely comfortable.

"I suppose."

Then Garak looks at the floor, and Bashir watches him.

"I also suppose," Garak continues, "this means I cannot be considered your patient."

No, Bashir won't let a phrase like that slip by.  He reaches out for Garak's forearm, cupping it in a Cardassian gesture of respect.

"That's where you're wrong," he says.  "Let me help you get home."

It's a gamble - Bashir may have given himself away already - but he intends to get what he came here for.  He isn't willing to see Garak sacrifice himself for Tain again, for no good reason, not without doing everything in his power to prevent it first.

"You were on course to Cardassia Prime, I assume?" Bashir adds.

"No," Garak says, without elaborating.

"But you _do_ want to go home?"

Garak makes his way slowly to the computer console he was repairing when Bashir first arrived.  Bashir's knowledge of Cardassian ships is limited, but he has lived long enough on a Cardassian station to know this is the navigational system.  He does not make a move to intervene.

"I do," Garak says.  

Bashir still does not rush at the panel.  He is careful not to overplay his qualifications, as not to make Garak suspicious.  From a distance, he watches and tries to figure out where, exactly, Garak is meaning to go.  

"What are you going to do with the changeling?" Bashir decides to ask.  "I... I might like to study it further."

Garak has his hand beneath the mechanical underbelly of the navigational console, cradling sparking wires and exposed nodes.  Indecisively and blindly, he fusses with some of them, but Bashir does not notice any changes on the burnt-out viewscreen.

"Would you indeed?" Garak asks.  "I imagined it would be a bargaining chip, if I were intercepted by the Dominion."

"That's very smart."

"Although... if you'd like it, I'm just as willing to bargain with you, seeing as you're able to provide more immediate assistance."

"Well, I'd like to take you back to Cardassia," Bashir says, trying to sound gentle, working hard not to ask how much time Garak has been spending with Quark, lately.

"Oh, I know you do.  But that isn't where I'd like to go."

And just like that, Bashir knows nothing of Garak's intentions.  He could easily scoop up Odo and leave, but he wants Garak to come with him.  He wants Garak to _want_ to come with him.  But if Garak wants to go somewhere other than Cardassia... there is no way for Bashir to ask if Garak is referring to the station.  He is more worried Garak is planning to return to Dominion space, writing over Odo's powerless form like a treaty.

"How far away is your ship?" Garak asks.  "I assume you are still within range to transport, if it was self-piloted."

Bashir feels trapped.  

"It... wasn't," he says.  "I couldn't tell you the coordinates if I tried, I was only... tracing Tain's signal."

"How like the Obsidian Order," Garak says; Bashir hopes that will be good enough.

He can't volunteer to hail them, he can't interfere to warn Dax before Garak hails the ship himself... he considers revealing his identity, hoping Garak still considers him a friend.

But he cannot do this, either, because Tain wakes up.  His eyes are pale and pink at the quarters, and Bashir interferes less-than-a-suspected-second before Tain retches and slumps forward.  Oh, it's a nasty mix of medications Bashir has put him on, and he feels a pang of sympathy as Garak looks on in horror.

***

"I can't _be_ poisoned, you fool," Tain declares, with his eyes shut and covered by one of his hands. 

Garak nods, having suspected this for a few years, now, since Doctor Parmak conducted a very particular surgery and then was promptly exiled.  Tain would not be an effective leader of the planet's most delicate underground system if he could be removed by a mere drop or two of poison. No, he coughs all of them up.

"Sir," Rissa fumbles, "I never--"

Garak glances between both of them, slow and steady.  

"Garak, if you'd be so kind as to remove this impostor from my sight," Tain commands. 

" _Sir_ ," Rissa repeats, in a firmer voice.

Garak admires the doctor's candor, his recklessness.  It reminds him of someone he knows. And Garak knows better than anyone that no single individual should face Tain's wrath alone.  

Tain catches the cuff of Rissa's sleeve and tugs it, throwing him off balance.  He was preparing to retreat, but now Tain jerks him forward, and when he recoils again, his coat sleeve snaps back into place after a slight delay.  Tain's eyes are bleary, but he blinks and focuses on the brownish skin he and Garak have just seen, while Rissa steps backward and pulls his sleeve back into place.

Garak glances the other way, pretends he hasn't seen, and even supports Rissa's next round of debate.

"Sir, I never--" Rissa begins.

"Enabran," Garak reasons on the young doctor's behalf, "You were given an intravenous solution.  Can you not remember?"

Tain has never tolerated his weaknesses being discussed in mixed company, arguably even less in front of doctors, since the incident with Parmak.  Garak only says this because he _knows_ , and a small sentimental part of him wants to loan the doctor more time, another chance.  If they could get back to Rissa's ship together... if they could return to Bajoran space where Garak, bizarrely, is safer...

"You could still have a reaction, Sir, without the contents necessarily being compromised--" Rissa goes on.

Garak swats a hand at him, waving it back and forth until Rissa quiets himself.  It isn't _just_ sentiment, Garak tells himself.  Rissa is brazen and forward in his own right.  

"I want him confined, and if _you_ won't handle it--" Tain slurs, nodding indignantly at Garak, "--then _I_ will."

It feels like Odo's interrogation all over again, Garak thinks.  Does Tain realize what he compromises, when he leaves Garak alone in the firing range of sentimentality?  He must not. Or, if he does, he knows it pains Garak to make decisions like this unsupervised; perhaps he would rather see Garak haunted for years by making his own choices.  

After Tain tries to stumble forward, Garak gently sets him back down and turns to take Rissa's arm for himself.  

The ship is not in the state for storing prisoners.  One might argue, in fact, that the entire thing has been reduced to a holding cell: dark and cold and enhanced by only the most basic computer systems.  Garak wrestles Rissa into walking in front of him, twisting his arm and muttering against his ear when he protests.

" _Paranoid,_ isn't he?" Garak suggests.  "This will be better for both of us, come on."

"Don't touch me," Rissa argues, but Garak must ignore him.

They walk down the corridor together, with Rissa leaning heavily against Garak's chest, demonstrating a willingness to fight more than any actual physicality.  Garak is still able to shuffle his feet forward, moving his weight and Rissa's simultaneously, and it is not a long journey to the cabin where he interrogated Odo, earlier.

It has a physical sliding door which can be shut manually.  Once Garak has shoved Rissa inside, he puts all of his strength into the lever on the door-frame, making the door creak shut against its will.  Rissa slips one hand into the open space to intervene, and Garak is forced to accept Rissa is much stronger than he is. They have a stalemate, with the door half-closed-half-open.

Garak prefers to talk his way out of stalemates, so he swallows down the rising fear in his throat and willingly steps into the small room, too.

They stand facing each other, breathing hard.  

"I didn't poison him," Rissa says, for the tenth time.

"Neither did I," Garak tries to be cordial, holding his hands out to the sides in surrender.  "He took the original dosage himself. I doubt he even read the label."

"He didn't fall down."

Garak does not answer.  Tain _did_ fall, but any explanation of _why_ is not one Garak wants to give.

"He was bleeding before that, probably for a good hour or so," Rissa goes on, making grand diagnoses from a single eidetic memory; Garak knew the skill well.  It was thoroughly Cardassian, just when Garak began to waver in dividing his trust between Tain and Rissa.

"How did he call you?" Garak asks.

And then, without hesitation, Rissa brings his hand to his temple, poking it then rolling his fingers along to the back of his scalp.  Garak's eyes are transfixed, and his heart lurches forward.

"I was in quite a lot of pain, myself... I felt a sudden shock from my implant," Rissa says.  "And then I received a simple text communique of his coordinates, and--"

" _This_ ship's current coordinates, Doctor?"

Rissa hesitates, but nods in affirmation.  His story has changed since earlier, but this does not bother Garak in the least.  If anything, it comforts him.

"And _your_ ship must be nearby?" Garak asks.

"They aren't Order-affiliated," Rissa speaks quickly, "so they don't know what I'm doing here, or how long I'll be detained.  I expect they'll only circle for a few more hours, at best."

"At best..." Garak repeats.  "Yes, I see. At best, they could transport you directly out of this room, right under my nose."

Rissa's eyes begin to glow at that, and he narrows his brows, framing them for an even more dramatic effect.  Garak finds them piercing, intelligent, _astonishing_.

"Only if I signal them," Rissa says.  "But yes, of course I could do that at any time."

Ordinarily, Garak enjoys bargaining from a mutually respectful distance.  Removing one's personal space is the least dignified thing any agent can do, but he must give it a try now.  Rissa is too confident, too changeable. He almost reminds Garak of himself, when he was younger.

Garak steps forward, so his eye level matches Rissa's.  Then he speaks in a quiet, sinister voice, and refuses to blink.

"Why won't you?"

"Because I _want to help you_ ," Rissa says back.

Garak isn't sure what to do with this.  It seems honest, kind to the point of oblivious... it seems a lot like...

Rather than reply, Garak turns on his heel and shuts the door in Rissa's face.  He needs to talk to Tain. He does not want to, not at all, but he needs to. He needs to have his fears reinforced and his wishful thinking stifled.  

***

Bashir sits with his back against the wall and his hands clasped in front of him, arms resting atop his knees.  He could still count this mission a success; he could send a message to Dax and have himself and Odo swept out of the paralyzed ship in an instant.  But he does not want to leave Garak behind, especially on such poor parting terms.

That isn't what he's here for, though, according to his commanding officer.  He's here for Odo, and that's a problem he could solve at any moment. He feels around inside his coat for his communicator badge, tucked away and backward within a thick fabric pocket.  Garak could find it easily, if he bothered to look. Bashir wonders if Garak is usually this careless in his work, and then it occurs to him that Garak might _know_ , and Garak might be intervening to protect him.

He settles the tip of his finger over the comm badge, tickling it with quick motions, never touching it long enough to engage the microphone.  With ease, he imagines Garak facing Tain on the bridge, arguing in favor of an invented stranger., an impostor, a fellow liar. He can romanticize their argument all he likes, because he cannot hear it through the heavy cabin door.  

But then he has an idea, so he taps his communicator and whispers to Dax.  No preamble, no waste of his limited time alone.

"Can you lock onto _the changeling_ and transport on my signal?" he asks, lips almost brushing the face of his badge.

"Yes," Dax replies.  "What signal?"

"I might not be able to speak.  Just... the next time I comm you."  He clears his throat and adds, "Rissa out."

Bashir draws away his hand and returns to his slouched position, more mindful than ever of his badge.  He also worries Tain and Garak might have overheard him, despite his best effort to speak quietly; this has never been a particularly notable skill of his.  At the sight of his wrists - unveiled as he tenses his arms - he sighs. The injections will begin degrading, soon, and they have already seen his natural skin.  Bashir cannot be entirely sure of his safety, at this point. But isn't that the fun of undercover work? No, Bashir thinks, 'fun' isn't quite the word... but it certainly kick-starts one's adrenaline.

He will wait for Garak or Tain to come visit him in his makeshift cell, and as soon as Odo is left unguarded, Bashir plans to send his blank signal to Dax.  If he feels unsafe, he can easily add his name to the communication, and Dax can lock onto him before Garak or Tain can interfere. His identity won't matter, by then.

A small part of him still hopes to bring Garak along.  For a pleasant distraction, he lets his mind return to its own portrayal of Garak, passionately defending him - Doctor Rissa - to Tain.  

***

This has been exactly the case.

The more Garak insists Rissa is trustworthy and clean, the more Tain argues and tuts his tongue and tries to stand up.  Eventually, he manages to do so without his knees buckling, and after wiping the sweat from his face and finishing a serving of water from his personal rations, he begins his rampage down the corridor.

"I don't _care_ about any of that, Garak," Tain hollers.  " _I did not call him_."

"Forgive me for being taught to always assume you are lying, _especially_ to me."

" _Elim_ ," Tain growls.  "For once in your life, listen to me."

"I have always listened to you," Elim speaks with conviction, but too quietly for Tain to hear.

Tain reaches the door and finds it sealed, locked from the outside.  With difficulty, he lunges at the same lever Garak used earlier, and forces it down enough to pry the door open.  Garak intervenes with an offer to help him, but does so reluctantly, ready to stand between Tain and the doctor at a moment's notice.

He doesn't know what's come over him, to feel so attached to a stranger in such a small amount of time.  He could rival Tain with an alliance like this, he is disgusted to admit. He knows Tain will not return him to his former position within the Order, even if they do make it home.  So why struggle to play along? It might be easier - and far more pleasurable - to secure himself a seat on Rissa's ship, and go wherever it takes him. Garak has no problem changing his plans at the last second, as long as the benefits are likely to outweigh the costs.  

"Open this door, Garak," Tain thunders, drawing his disruptor pistol from its holster on his belt.

Garak swallows, says nothing, waits... he wonders how he might signal the danger to Rissa, on the other side.  But surely Rissa can hear the door being forced open, and can work out his own line of defense. Garak knows the doctor is clever, brave, and passably familiar with Tain's behavior.

He leans toward Tain, with his hands still firmly encircling the lever.  

"I don't think he poisoned you, Enabran," Garak says, in a sweet voice that has done him plenty of good over the years.  "I think he's a changeling. I think he could slip out of this room any time he wants, and I think I'd like to follow him. _May I_?"

It's a simple and unnecessary request, but Garak knows to put the power back into Tain's hands, if he is to get what he wants.  Tain probably knows this too, but Garak hopes the medication's effects are still lingering, enough to dull Tain's sense of critical thinking.  Between mixed drugs and flattery, Garak is almost positive he can get his way.

"How could I be so blind," Tain says, in defeat.

"Perhaps, if we hurry," Garak adds, tugging down on the lever again, "we can place him in the containment field, and question him."

Garak used to hunger for promises like this, himself.  He found this particular appetite through his training with Tain, and does not miss is so much when Rissa is the potential subject.  His resolve was already weakened during his session with Odo.

Tain takes the bait, leaving to retrieve the containment device from the bridge.  In his absence, Garak rushes to finish opening the door, relieved to find Rissa - in a perfectly solid form - on the other side.  

Rissa pulls his hand out of his inner pocket, empty.  Garak half-expected a weapon, or another medical scanner, but there is nothing.  Rissa's face twists into a smile, and as Garak steps closer, he realizes 'twists' is all too apt a description.  Rissa's brow ridges are sagging, setting his expression into one of perpetual discomfort, and his cheeks are beginning to darken, as if he is ill.

Or, Garak's invented errand for Tain is justified, after all.

"My word, you _are_ a changeling," Garak says.

Rissa shakes his head... an oddly human gesture... but Garak does not backpedal on his accusation.  These things must play themselves out.

"I'm not," Rissa counters, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Garak can practically taste his panic, and it does not taste Cardassian.  He lets the tip of his tongue poke through his lips, relying on his sensory glands to confirm or deny his suspicion.  Has he been fooled, too?

Oddly enough, the taste does not alarm him.  In fact, by the time Tain rushes back, empty-handed and out of breath, yelling about the containment field's apparent disappearance, Garak is overcome with a feeling of serenity.  He has a fair idea of what is going on, now.

"Well," Garak soothes Rissa, not Tain, "you certainly... put on a good show."

He moves to stand behind Rissa, with his arm barred over his throat.  Garak only needs to make small adjustments to his position, tightening Rissa's posture and ensuring Tain gets to see the best _show_ possible.  Rissa's neck is warm, smooth, then rippling from the center, and beige in color...

"Where have you taken my containment device?" Tain demands.

Garak ignores this, presses his forehead to Rissa's temple, trying to offer silent reassurance.  Then, he whispers.

"Your ship, Doctor," Garak says, in the same sweet tone.  "I want to go with you."

Rissa struggles against Garak's grip, trying to reach back into his inner coat pocket.  Garak puts the pieces together, and does so for him, fumbling blindly for the communication device.  He feels the curve of an oval-shape, abruptly interrupted by a sharp line, familiar...

"Two to transport," Rissa calls out, after Garak has tapped the device.

***

They materialize on the runabout, still tangled up.  Garak withdraws his arm upon sight of Dax, standing and approaching them with her tricorder drawn like a weapon.  Garak does not look shocked in the least, but Bashir has other matters to prioritize.

"How's Odo?" Bashir asks.

"Stable, but you should probably take a look," she replies, hovering past both of them with the tricorder.  "Hi, Garak."

"Hello, Lieutenant..."

Dax returns to her seat as Bashir dislodges himself from Garak's arms, which were otherwise stuck in place.

"When did you know?" Bashir asks, with a familiar twinkle in his eye.

Garak returns the precise nature of the gaze, with ease.  The man is a chameleon, Bashir thinks to himself, a mirror, a _spy_.

"Within the first minute."

"Really?" Bashir asks, sounding only playfully disappointed, as he stoops beside the containment field Odo is resting in.  "I thought I did better than _that_.  You looked like I had you... reeled in..."

Garak waits until Bashir is looking up at him again, even while he is running a scanner over Odo.

"I enjoyed playing along," Garak says, and he leaves it that.

"You wanted to go home," Bashir infers, "to the station, I mean."

"I don't remember saying that.  But, now that I'm here..."  
  



End file.
